


Steady Bones, Still Hands

by Myzic



Series: Whumptober 2020 [9]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Other, Panic Attacks, Whump, Whumptober 2020, aka oneshot of a naive writer, anxiety attack, i guess it's rlly more like an anxiety attack, we die like hyperion mayors, what's a betrayal? I have never heard of this word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myzic/pseuds/Myzic
Summary: The suds in his hair frothed pleasantly under his diligence, creating swaths of foamy bubbles that slid from his scalp beneath the showerhead. Normally, Peter would enjoy the feeling of hot water over his shoulders, the soothing weight of pressurized rain.But he could hardly pay attention to these details, distracted as he was by the curled knot resting unpleasantly in the balls of his feet and the deepest trench in his stomach. Tomorrow was a big day, after all.The biggest.Or,Peter worries the night before the Curemother Prime heist.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Series: Whumptober 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956226
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53





	Steady Bones, Still Hands

The suds in his hair frothed pleasantly under his diligence, creating swaths of foamy bubbles that slid from his scalp beneath the showerhead. Normally, Peter would enjoy the feeling of hot water over his shoulders, the soothing weight of pressurized rain.

But he could hardly pay attention to these details, distracted as he was by the curled knot resting unpleasantly in the balls of his feet and the deepest trench in his stomach. Tomorrow was a big day, after all.

The biggest.

And Peter had had his fair share of important heists, robberies, the odd assassination of some very important public figures, but he hadn’t felt this kind of pressure since—

Well, there had once been a very naive boy who thought he was going to be a revolutionary, and that very naive boy almost killed millions of people in one fell swoop. So.

It was fair to say Peter had reason to be nervous. 

He didn’t think he’d wanted something so badly since (three hundred seventy-eight days ago, and also last Tuesday, nine-thirty pm in bed) he’d been seventeen, staring down the building with the systems for the Guardian Angel System. 

The very idea of the Curemother Prime was like a child’s bedtime story. If you could wish for just one thing, anything in the whole wide world, what would it be? His own answer had been something along the lines of food, or parents when he was seven, before Mag, in the alleys below New Kinshasa, whispered like a secret to another homeless child whose face he could no longer recall. The more common answer he knew was closer to what the Curemother Prime represented: the end of universal hunger, peace, which had come true in his lifetime, a miracle he never thought he’d live to see in his adolescence, and for no more sickness.

Even the most ambitious jobs in his long years of work had never touched what the Curemother Prime could do for everyone across the galaxy. Perhaps some part of that had been the myth surrounding it, but it didn’t change the magnitude of their goal. Thousands of hours, training, planning, working to make tomorrow happen and he still didn’t feel ready.

He remembered alternating between sweating and shivering in clothes he’d soaked through during the winter, too far gone with fever and delirium to notice the person whose body heat he’d been sharing had long since gone cold. Making it to the summer months and considering himself lucky that he wasn’t one of the many decomposing bodies left to rot under boxes and metal disposal bins. No one would know that feeling, not after  _ tomorrow _ .

That is, if all went as they’d planned. 

Peter should be preparing right now, sharpening his knives, going over the mission one more time, looking at the building plans. They simply could not afford to fail, not just because it would mean immediate repercussions in the form of their deaths (Juno’s death, which fell into the category of unacceptable, even the brief consideration of it) but because their goal was too valuable to end with their lives. 

The others felt it too, the last week’s training had been more intense, the tension palpable. Vespa had snapped at Rita two days ago and instantly looked horrified along with everyone else present, the looks she got varying from disapproving to an enraged glare on one private detective’s face. Followed by some Words. Last night’s supper had been burned to a crisp as the crew silently agreed not to mention the practically inedible food to Jet. Peter could have sworn he was imagining it, but yesterday, he’d seen Buddy awake late into the night writing what looked like screenplay out of stress, the dim lights of the kitchen shining bloodred off her hair.

The hot water was starting to make him sweat and his heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest, so he turned off the nozzle and stepped out of the shower. 

Juno was in his bed, snuggled under the tidily made sheets just outside the bathroom and Peter wanted to lay down next to him, but more than that he knew he needed to prepare. He would not be the weak link in this operation. He never had been before and didn’t plan on starting now or anytime soon. 

He stood on heat-heavy limbs outside the shower cubicle, grasping his towel and burying his face in it as he waited for his heart rate to settle down. It rebelled against the notion, beating faster even, and Peter decided— that was right—  _ decided _ , to sit down. 

The hot steam of the shower made his breaths tepid and he couldn’t feel the usual expansion of his lungs with its warmth. The lack of perceived oxygen made his chest clench and the resulting head rush spun his head in dizzying motions. His pulse jumped through his face and he found his eyes flitting to the doorway. 

He realized he was surveying the only available exit in the bathroom.

There were no threats here. Peter knew there weren’t, but for a moment his cover was blown in a warehouse with one too many gang members to handle alone, he had missed a camera focused directly on his quick fingers, he was being captured on a train he’d thought he could escape from safely. And his body reacted the way he had trained it to, mind scanning over possible escape routes, finding ways to keep him alive, a place to disappear to.

The throb of his heart was crawling up his throat, thick in his temples and below his jaw. He still couldn’t feel himself breathing and there was the sensation of sharp and jittery pain in his stomach.

A knock on the door sounded hollow somewhere Peter didn’t feel like his skin was plastic left out in the sun too long, shrinking over a frame too large for it— and a concerned voice followed.

“Honey? Are you alright in there?” Juno sounded muffled behind the door and his own pulse, pounding red and heavy through his face. 

“Perfectly alright,” he choked out and knew it was not one of his better lies.

A particularly strong swell of bitterness spread over the back of his tongue, and Peter was only given a moment to feel a wave of dread before he was leaning over the toilet bowl. He tried not to pay attention to the contents of his stomach and instead widened his nostrils so he could breathe between the first bout and the second, as his stomach protested again and he hurled the day’s meals away.

Despite the shower he’d taken, his body was slick with sweat under his knees and in his armpits, save for the spot where he could feel the thread of his towel rubbing raw against his now tender skin. 

He thought he heard something approaching the word ‘breathing’ outside the door. 

Breathe. He had to breathe, Peter reminded himself. As he inhaled, he slowly became more aware of the taste of bile, bitter on his tongue, and less aware of the drumming pound of his heartbeat.

Someone was still speaking outside the door, “Peter? I can’t hear you gasping anymore, which means you’re either breathing at normal volumes now or passed out on the floor. I’m going to break the doorknob off this stupid bathroom door.”

“No,” he pressed the towel under his arms quickly, wiping away the excess sweat, “It’s okay this time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m certain,” Peter dressed himself on deerlike legs as he spoke.

“Do you need anything, like can I grab something for you, or jeez, do you need in help in there? I am two seconds away from breaking this doorknob if you’re lying.” With cupped hands, Peter gulped down water from the faucet to rid himself of the lingering taste of vomit.

He laughed shakily and swung open the door to see Juno in his sweats and a soft T-shirt that made up his pajamas. “Remind me to teach you how to pick a lock.”

“I know how to pick a lock, it’s just faster to break the damn— ” He could practically see the rest of Juno’s brain catch up to his words as he took in Peter’s disheveled state. He fought the urge to walk backward into the bathroom and take another shower. “Are you,” Juno stumbled over his words, appearing to switch tracks, “Has this ever happened to you before?”

“It hasn’t,” Peter felt briefly ill at the thought of doing that again, “does that mean you’ve had, I don’t know, ‘episodes’ before?”

Juno shrugged as he led him to their bed, “Few clients come in with stressful situations, thought I’d learn some stuff so I didn’t feel so useless while strangers looked like they were having heart attacks in my office chair. Glad I did now, not that I helped you much. Mostly just kept myself calm instead of tearing down the door into sim-wood chips.”

“You weren’t far off from what I recall. The doorknob, Juno?” he flushed and Peter knew the next words out of his mouth would be the high and melodic ones of indignation. Internally he relaxed at the more familiar territory they were entering.

“Hey, I— wait. No. What tripped you up inside the shower, Peter?” Damn.

“We really should be getting some of those floor stickers to give you more traction. The slick surfaces in there are brutal, and I would know.” The detective’s curious nature struggled across his face at the obvious bait, but he didn’t take it.

“Avoiding the subject, Nureyev.” Peter pressed his lips together and worked not to melt at the name, smooth as silk in Juno’s mouth. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But if you want to  _ talk _ , I’m here, okay?” he slipped his hand into Peter’s who watched him pull out his comms, “Just… let me know.” 

He hid his curiosity pretty well, and the questions fell from his face as he held Peter’s hand in his and used the other to beat various levels of wordscramble. He was perfect, sitting there, unfairly attractive in his pajamas (which included  _ sweatpants  _ that he looked great in) and Peter could feel his resolve crumbling faster than he would ever admit to.

“I may be a little worried about the heist tomorrow,” he said slowly, “there’s just  _ so much _ that could go wrong and I have been on big heists before, darling, but this one is—.” Peter struggled to articulate himself.

“Uh, yeah. I think I get it. You’re scared. So am I.” Peter couldn’t help but glance at his comms, “No, really. I am terrified out of my goddamn mind that I’m going to find some way to screw tomorrow to hell even with the crazy training regiment Buddy’s had us on. 

“Forgive me my doubt, I just don’t understand how you can be so relaxed right now.” A short laugh that bore Juno’s Adam's apple.

“Relaxed? Nureyev, I’m trying to focus on just about any activity that’ll stop me from sweating out all the salts in my body right now,” He held up his comms which had glinting wet fingerprints on them, “with maybe, I dunno, thirty percent success, which is a fail. But it's better than worrying myself into an early grave.”

Peter abruptly stopped feeling guilty about the sweat on Juno’s hand he thought had been his own. “Is that how you coped before? On your bigger, say, high-tension cases?”

“No, that was mostly alcohol, when I could afford to get shitfaced on a job. Otherwise, I worked myself to unconsciousness till I woke up passed out on my desk the next morning.”

“That sounds like the opposite of sustainable. Did Rita know?”

“Sure. Couldn’t get me to stop, though. Don’t think anyone could have ‘cept myself at that point.”

“You’ve been doing an admirable job of it, dear.”

He flushed beautifully with the praise, but looked at Peter with raised eyebrows as he spoke, words heavy with meaning, “Thanks. And you were right, it wasn’t sustainable long-term, but the only one who could stop me was me. Uh, with some encouragement from some friends.”

The meaning behind his words was clear, but Peter found himself taken aback. “There’s no such thing as over-preparing for a job, Juno. Knowing all the details of a hire before I go in has saved my skin too many times for me to give up the habit now.”

“That’s not what I meant,”

“It certainly sounded like you might be implying I should ‘stop myself’ or maybe save myself from something I don’t need to be saved from.”

“I’m trying to tell you maybe you should take a break.” Peter’s voice turned clipped. He could almost hear the struggle in Juno’s tone, oscillating between cutting sarcasm and forced calm.

“Is that not what I’m doing right this very moment?” Peter demurred, some distant part of him aware that they shouldn’t be fighting, that it wasn’t worth it the day before the cause of his worries. That it was those very fears that made him irritable and snappish now.

“No, it’s not. I don’t mean sit there and worry, I mean relax, Nureyev. There’s only so much you can do to prepare, and I think we’ve got it pretty well-covered at this point.” 

He couldn’t help but retort in a hiss, “Ensuring that we don’t die tomorrow  _ is _ my way of de-stressing, and forgive me if I can’t bring myself to  _ relax  _ because of that trait

“What about tomorrow has you so worked up, anyway?” Juno’s words grew more petulant, and Peter instinctively readied himself. But he deflated instead and Peter did too at the soft slump of Juno’s shoulders, where he’d been expecting rigid frustration. “All I want to do is help you, honey. Please, let me. I can’t do anything for you if I don’t know why you’re worried.”

Here he was, picking a fight. What had Juno done tonight? Helped him through a panic attack, spoken softly about his vulnerabilities, offered well-intentioned advice. And the only thing he’d done was doing was throw it in his face. Peter was frustrated. Juno had grown so much, gone through something, and come out the other side better for it.

What had he done?

“Sorry, dearest,” he sighed, and could feel Juno’s hand in his own loosen at the contrite apology. “I— well I know we have prepared. Maybe as much as we could have, but… preparation does not change our potential for error.” he hesitated, “ _ My _ potential for error. Don’t you see, Juno? Something this important, this life-changing, and for everyone, every single soul in the Outer Rim and Solar system’s lives could be changed by what we do tomorrow. We simply can’t afford to mess this up. Mistakes at this stage in the game are unacceptable.”

As their gaze met, Peter hoped he’d conveyed his worries. Juno’s own eyes found him and he lost himself in the warmth of their hazel.

“Huh.” he let go of Peter’s hand for a moment and he mourned the loss of their warmth, but then his fingers were intertwining themselves with Peter’s into a linked grasp, “That’s— honestly, it didn’t really occur to me.”

“The idea that we might make  _ mistakes  _ didn’t  _ occur _ to you?” It was funny, how he could fake the inflections of hundreds of people, fool native speakers with his accents, but when it came to Juno, he couldn’t help the strangled, dubious sound that emerged from his throat.

“I mean, yeah, sure, I let myself imagine, for just a second, that we’re human and have the ability to fuck up every once in a while. But it doesn’t really,” he shrugged nonchalantly and Peter choked, “worry me?”

“But— How?”

“I dunno, should it?”

“ _ Yes _ ! Yes, it definitely, definitely  _ should _ .”

“Peter, I just trust the crew? How do I—” Juno paused for a moment and Peter was grateful for the reprieve, working to wipe the disbelief from his face, “Look, you would describe yourself as a professional, right?”

“I— Well, I would hope so. After twenty years of intergalactic heists,” he said quietly, intentionally not muttering. 

“And would you still consider yourself a professional if you couldn’t, just throwing this out there, adapt on the fly? Improvise? Find some way to survive by the seat of your pants the way we always seem to?” Peter flushed.

“I have to, it’s part of working as I do. Anything could go wrong, so…”

“Right, so any mistakes we make, I expect we could probably,” Juno hummed, mouth flattening as his face did simultaneously the cutest and most gorgeous scrunch, “fix it? Everyone here’s a professional—  _ don’t tell Vespa I said that  _ —which means they’re uh, pretty good I’d say? At what they do? Peter, you’re fine. The one you should be worried about fucking this up is the amateur one-year-old criminal.”

“Darling, I have never seen someone adapt so well to a life of crime in my career,” Peter held Juno’s hand to his cheek and ran his thumb over the back of it until he flushed a red that was quickly making its way up to his list of favourite colours.

“Except Rita.” Except Rita.

“Except Rita,” he agreed. 

Juno leaned over and kissed him, and he smiled into it. Peter let go of his hand to put them on the side of Juno’s face and cherished the warm skin on he held in his hands. His world, which he held in his hands.

“Thank you, darling,” Peter said softly. “Do you— is it alright if you—” he slowly placed Juno’s arms around him, giving him the chance to retract them if he so chose. He didn’t, and Peter sank further under the sheets until they were both lying down, arms wrapped around each other. “Hold me until we fall asleep? Just for tonight.”

“Sure,” Juno held him and Peter couldn’t do anything but return the favour, “we can do this every night if you want.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Nureyev.” Peter closed his eyes along with Juno’s, but opened them once more as his breaths grew even and his face grew lax with sleep. He didn’t think he’d ever stop finding him beautiful, even with his mouth open wide as a flytrap. 

He watched as Juno gave in to sleep, mouth dropping open and arms not moving from around Peter even as they went limp with slumber.

He could stay here, with the most wonderful lady he’d ever met. Sleep, warm in his arms until they changed the world for the better by this time the next day.

Peter lightly removed the arms around him with the precision one might employ during heart surgery, and reluctantly slipped out of the bed, cringing at the feeling of the cold floor as he placed the pads of his feet on the side of the bed.

The map should be where Buddy left it. All he needed was a little more time before tomorrow.

He would be back before Juno even noticed the loss of his presence. Every step away from him was a wound, each footprint, a part of him left behind as he walked down the hallway and further away from Juno’s room. He would be back, Peter told himself.

  
  


But somehow, with his focus on the map, he didn’t make it back to Juno before the morning was upon them and the night had long since faded.

**Author's Note:**

> A betrayal? I have never heard of a betrayal in my life hahaha
> 
> These two (lovable, god do I love them) losers held hands the entire time they argued.
> 
> I'm @themagicmistress on Tumblr if you wanna scream with me!


End file.
